


Silence Is All Too Loud

by Milaneficent



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Artist Zayn, Bad Boy Zayn, F/M, Female Character of Color, Islam, Islamophobia, POV Character of Color, POV Female Character, Tattoo Artist Zayn, Waiter Zayn, desi zayn, ziam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:05:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3070910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milaneficent/pseuds/Milaneficent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Priya is trying to keep where she came from in her heart and be who she needs to be while also being who she wants to be but with a sister who is doing everything to put their childhood and upbringing behind them and a boy she's met that only wants to let her remember, how does she work it out without getting caught in the middle?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Haad Saeed / Best Of Luck

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Desi Zayn fanfic so it'll obviously involve desi foods and traditions and stuff. I'll probably put notes at the end for those of you who might have question on what all this means.

The house practically smelled like it was burning to cinders. Anjali always messed up the Balushahi and my Mother always made her make it anyways. It was like my mother never learned her lesson. I sighed and straightened my t-shirt before I followed my mother on her way past my room to the kitchen through a cloud of gray smoke. I held my nose coughing as we entered.

“Why do you let her make it anyways, Mama? You know, she’s going to burn it.” I said as we entered the kitchen and I ran to the stove turning it off.

My sister sat on the top of the deep freezer with her new cell phone held up to her ear. She’d turned twenty-two a few days ago and tonight her boyfriend was coming over. Of course, she would never call him that because our parents would kill her. I watched as my mother snatched the phone from her hand.

“Hello?” my mother said in an angry tone of voice. “I don’t care who you are. Anjali will have to call you back when she’s done fixing her burned Balushahi.”

“Mom!” I heard my sister yell as I batted at the wafting smoke rising from the pot.

She didn’t just burn the balushahi. She burned the butter, too.

“How are you ever gonna get married if you can’t even cook?” My mom yelled at her.

They had these arguments several times a day. My mom was an old-fashioned Punjabi woman that stood not much taller than my sister and they were slightly shorter than I. My sister, however, always wore heels to cover this fact up and stood much taller than me now in her beautiful purple sari with a matching bindi between her expertly done eyebrows. My mother was dressed in her best sari, as well, all because my sister’s precious boyfriend was coming over.  I reached for the frying tool to pick the burnt round of dough from the burned butter and tossed it in the garbage.

“Go fix it before he gets here, Anjali.” My mother yelled at her.

“No, mom. I’ll fix it. Knowing Anjali, she’d probably just mess it up again, anyways.”

“Don’t be rude, Priya.” Anjali said hopping from the freezer to the floor and standing next to me nudging me out of the way. “I can do it.”

I hip-checked her gently causing her to stumble over her own two feet.

“Anjali, be thankful for your sister.” My mother said tugging gently on the end of her sari and pulling her from the room.

I rolled my eyes as I turned the vacuum above the stove on. They returned with air freshener to rid the kitchen of the burning scent before Anjali’s new boyfriend arrived as I was just flipping over the last of the Balushahi. I sighed as I laid them all in a pattern on the plates my mother brought from India when she first moved here. She stood next to me watching me as she messed with my sister’s clothing and gave me the eye.

“Aren’t you going to change into your nice sari?” my mother said poking me in the side.

There is a slight chance I overreacted. I jumped practically out of my skin sending hot butter flying all over my arm. I let out a shriek that pierced my own ears more than my mother’s and sister’s before grabbing a towel next to the stove.

“Don’t touch me like that, mama, please!” I said wiping the butter off of my arm. I was already somehow beginning to blister and strip already. I winced as my eyes welled up from the pain. I wiped the tears from my cheek as my sister smirked.

“Always crying like a baby” Anjali said as she left the kitchen.

My mother grabbed the wooden spoon next to me hitting her on her way out. “Behave yourself, yeah? Grab the bandages.”

“If you keep crying like that, you'll never be married!” Anjali shouted as she sauntered down the hall.

“Anjali, shut up!” I yelled at her as I moved to the couch near the dining room to sit down.

I wiped more tears from my eyes as I sat there before my mother walked out with a ziploc bag filled with ice placing it on my arm. I flinched back for a moment before letting it freeze and numb the pain as Anjali walked in handing my mother the first-aid kit.

“Like a baby. Crying all the time. Don’t know what to do.” Anjali said before she walked away again.

I narrowed my eyes. She just quoted Avatar at me. I was getting fed up with my sister’s bullshit, honestly. I sat there biting my lip to ease the pain as my mother put antibiotic on my arm and wrapped it with gauze and a fresh bandage.

“Now go change into your sari.” My mother insisted.

“Why do I have to? Honestly, he’s white. He won’t appreciate how nice any of us look. He’ll just think it’s ‘cool.” I putting air quotes around the word cool and then flinching when my arm didn’t respond well to the sudden movement.

I didn’t have anything against white people. Okay, maybe something small. I didn’t like them running around wearing saris and bindis and thinking it was a trend. It isn’t a trend. It was thousands of years of culture that they were just stealing right from under us. I hated it with a passion but I didn’t hate white people. That would be racist. It was just that...I knew Anjali’s boyfriend was gonna come over see how pretty she looked in her sari with her bindi on her forehead and just say it was ‘cool’. He wouldn’t appreciate how special it all was. I knew he wouldn’t and I didn’t know how to tell my sister that without seeming jealous. I wasn’t jealous. I just knew he wouldn’t see it as special. He would see it as her following another fashion trend or worse he would see it as us all being too “old-fashioned”.

“You have to wear it, in case, he’s evil. It’ll ward off all his bad spirits.” My mom said smiling and pressing the place between my forehead where the bindi should’ve been. “You know, you’re sister is bad at picking boys.”

I smirked and hugged her tight. She always knew how to make me feel better. I got up flexing my hand to see how the bandage felt before I walked back down the hallway and into my room. I opened my closet and headed straight for the back where my drawers full of saris was and opened it. My uncles bought Anjali and I new ones every time they went to a wedding or returned from a sari. My hands ran over the soft fabric and I bit my lip in thought. If I wore my best sari, Anjali was going to think I was trying to show her up and maybe I would’ve been in any other case but not this one. I wasn’t trying to show anyone up, at all. I just wanted tonight to be over. If I wore anything less than my best, my mother would be upset with me and assume I was trying to make Anjali and the entire family look bad. God forbid, I make them look bad. Either way, I was going to make Anjali look bad. I sighed and pulled out my best Sari. I found my favorite black choli and slipped it on straightening the fabric. This was always a struggle for me because somehow, I got a flat-chested Mother and sister and ended up on the higher side of the spectrum when it came to boobs. I guess I got all of what Anjali missed out on because I got to be the ‘butt’ of the family jokes, too. I pulled on a pair of black leggings and stood in the mirror staring at my pudgy stomach. I had slight love handles and a stomach that poked out a little bit. I sighed. That was the other thing. Anjali was always skinnier than me.

I had this one rule for myself that I never could seem to obey. Never to compare myself to Anjali. I should have never done that in the first place because we were so different. Anjali was shallow. Her boyfriend’s were all looks and no brains and often no kindness and they were ignorant. I spent that last four years being bombarded with comments like, “Oh, is that a bindi, that’s what they’re called right?” or “Oh, I like your scarf thingy. Is that meant to be a dress?” or “Is this curry? I love indian curry. You guys are honestly the best at making it.” My mother was right. She wasn’t great at picking boys. She was terrible at it, actually.

I took my sari draping it around my self, wrapping my hips and leaving a small gap where my stomach would slightly show. I turned in the mirror and tucked the pleats into my leggings before tossing a shawl over my shoulder. I opened the door and saw Anjali standing there. She gave me a slow once over before rolling her eyes and moving onto the kitchen. I kept my eyes on the ground as I already knew what her reaction would be before I headed towards my parent’s room where my mom kept our bindis. I always gave her mine to keep so I wouldn’t lose them. I walked in to see my father laying there in his bed reading a newspaper. When he noticed me, he smiled down at me tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You look beautiful, Priya.” He said smiling.

I felt my face relax as he placed his hand on my cheek, “Thank you, papa.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll find a nice Pakistani boy, one day, too.” Papa said smiling.

I snickered a little before turning to my parents’ mirror and opening the jewelry box. I place a small teardrop shaped bindi on my forehead before turning back to my father and smiling. He had lost all hope for my sister to marry any desi boy. She never even dated one. Her first boyfriend was white and all the others after were too. It was like she had never even thought or considered a pakistani boy or an Indian boy. She didn’t care what our parents wanted. I didn’t have that much courage and I didn’t want to anyways. I was fine with Desi boys. All of them.It was my sister whos chose to rebel.

“He’ll be here soon. Mama will be mad if you don’t come out when he’s here.” I pointed out.

He nodded and closed the paper setting it next to him and standing up, “I guess I better go then, huh?”

I nodded and moved to the door with my father following after me. My parents were relatively young. Far younger than most Pakistani or Indian parents. My father was just entering his forties and my mother was right behind. She was 17 when she’d had Anjali and 21 when she’d had me. My father was only three years older than her. He tugged on the end of my ponytail as we walked down the hall.

“Papa, stop. If you mess up my hair, mama will be upset.” I whined pulling my ponytail over my shoulder.

“Upset? I suppose she’ll have to be upset, then.” He said rubbing his hands through my hair and fuzzing it up.

“Papa!” I yelled jokingly running away from him.

“If you’re not careful, you’ll burn your hand again, duckling.” He yelled as he chased me through the kitchen.

“I won’t.” I said rolling my eyes as I stopped behind the table.

He’d always called me that. When I was little, he said I waddled like a duckling and I was just as clumsy as one, too. I believed him, of course because It was probably true. I tripped and stumbled through my entire life OK one big mistake. Okay, well, my sister was the mistake but I was still tripping and stumbling while she glided gracefully as a boy’s dream. I think my mother and father saw that. They wanted different thing for us. For my mother, it was for Anjali to marry at all and for me to marry an Indian boy. For my father, it was for me to marry at all and Anjali to marry a Pakistani boy but they both were going to be sorely disappointed. That was how it seemed any way a. Anjali hadn't liked anything but white boys since the second grade and I hadn't had a boyfriend since year five. I had a hard feeling that their old world hopes were lost on the both of us. It pained me to say this but I couldn't talk to my father about it eight then because the doorbell echoed off the walls and pictured windows of our home.

            "Best of luck," my father whispered as my mother rounded the corner giving us both warning looks.

            "Best of luck, papa." I said bowing my head before my mother could catch me snickering. "Best of luck, indeed."

            "Priya, come along. Your father will set the table." My mother said giving him the worst side eye in probably our entire family history.

            "Ah, but-"

            God forbid, my father had finished his sentence, "I said set the table, Anwar."

           I pursed my lips and looked anywhere but at the defeated look on my father's face as I followed my mother to the door where my sister was holding it only slightly open so we could barely see the boy's face. He looked nice enough but then again, didn't they always. The incessant giggling from my sister didn't help his situation. Definitely not in my mother's eyes. She walked forward nudging my sister out of the way.

            "Welcome to our home," my mother paused in the kind of fill-in-name-here way that she always did with Anjali's boyfriends simply to see if they were clever enough to understand.

           "Tucker. My name is Tucker." He said running a hand through his lush blonde hair as my mother took the other one holding it close to her.

           "Tucker. Come, we were just waiting for you to start eating." My mother cooed at him as my sister closed the door behind them.

           She made a sort of puke face as my mother walked him to the dining table cooing and asking him questions.

          "Why does she do that? She's so overbearing." Anjali said leaning against the door as crossing her arms.

          "She wants to make sure that he knows you come from a good family." I said pointing to our parents as our father shook his hand.

          "He doesn't care about that." She brushed me out of her way and walked furiously towards our parents plastering a white smile on her brown face as she reached them.

          "Maybe that's the problem." I whispered quietly under my breath.

          I followed her over to my parents where my father put his arm around my waist and pet my hair.

          "And this is our youngest, Priya." My mother waved at me before narrowing her eyes as a single to tell me to get off of my father's lap.

         I sighed and moved over to my own seat. My mother passed me the bowl. I silently spooned hot Chole bhature into my dish before grabbing two rounds of roti from the plate in the centre of the table.

           "I made a chick pea dish. I wasn't sure if you ate meat." My mother said nodding towards the dish as Tucker took it.

         I almost began to giggle as I realized that he was wearing a white button down shirt and light wash jeans. Perfect curry clothes for a newbie like him.

         "No, yeah, I eat meat. My mom makes steak and pork chops all the time." Tucker commented as he tucked into the share of Chole Bhature he had on his plate.

         I wasn't sure if the people who had made the sound notices it but all at once my father. Mother, father, and Anjali gasped. If Anjali was going to have a boyfriend, the last she could do was find one who didn't eat things my parents considers a disgrace or too holy to eat. The least she could do was date someone who respected our culture and religion.

         But she couldn't even do that.

         I mean, if she was going to piss of mom and dad, then go big or go home, right?

        "Don't worry, Babuji. If she ends up denouncing both Allah and Vishnu, at least she'll have Tucker." I said smirking.

       "Babu-" Anjali stopped and started again. "Papa, she's wrong. I don't mean it that way. He didn't mean it that way."

       A look of realisation crossed Tucker's face. His eyes bulged open And the lock of golden blonde hair that dropped in his forehead flew up as he lurched forward.

       I leaned in his direction basking in the glow of his shame and whispering, "Is the curry too spicy or have you just realised how much of a dumbass you are?"

        I gave him one hard smack on the back causing him to jut his skinny arm out and take swig of water. I couldn't wait to tell this story to whoever Anjali actually marries a.k.a. not this joke with gel in his hair and boat shoes on his feet.

       "You really shouldn't worry about it, Babuji." I said patting Tucker on the back more gently now that he had finished drinking water. "At least, if she renounces both Hinduism and Islam, she and Tucker will always use protection. Protection is good, right, Tucker?"

       "Yes!" He immediately shouted dumbly then stuttered. "N-no."

       "What are you saying that you'd like to impregnate my daughter?" Papa asked as his face had gotten a slight red tint to it and his hands hand tightened so hard around each other that I thought he would break his own fingers.

       "No, no, sir. I mean, protection is good but-" Tucker stumbled along in his attempt to undo the goodbye package I had just wrapped for him.

       "So you intend to sleep with her and steal her virtue just not impregnate her because let me guess, you don't want to be trapped with a child?" My father barked at him. "Get out!"

       My mother's eyes fell into a sad look as she twiddled her thumbs and stared from Anjali who looked on the verge of tears to Papa who was as vermilion as the mark on his forehead. Tucker pushed his chair back from the table and moved as fast as he could away from it heading for the door. He could barely get the words, 'Bye, Anjali.' From his lips before my father's slipper came off and barely missed his head hitting the door that was now closed.

       "Anjali, you are not to see that boy again!" My father yelled as he sat down returning to his food.

       "Papa, it's not his fault. It's Priya's! She did that on purpose!" Anjali yelled through her tears.

       "You should try thanking your sister! For keeping these folks away from you!" My father said and then he pursed his lips and that was the end of the conversation.

       Anjali got up running to her room in wails and tears as my mother followed behind her but before she left, she said, "You should both be a little kinder to these boys."

      I couldn't help but respond with, "If he truly loved Anjali, he'll return and face Papa with all the bravery of Shah Rukh Khan."

     As my mother left, I shrugged. Priya picking the wrong boys was no skin off my back. Sure, I didn't only like Indian or Pakistani boys but I didn't bring home any boy that was simply mediocre to Papa. I knew how he loved tearing people apart as if he were at work.

    Papa was a lawyer. One of the best in our entire area and he hated how the boys that Anjali brought home acted. He hated how they had no idea about either of the cultures mashed up to create our home. He hated how different they were from us and how they judged us without even knowing they were doing it and frankly, I did too. That was why I ran them off. I could see they were no good, no matter how hard they tried. Besides that, it was a lot of fun, seeing as how Anjali treated me rottenly all the time and teased about how I couldn't bring home a boyfriend. At least, if I ever did, he would be a good one, right? I just had to wait for him to come along. It wouldn't take that long. I wish I hadn't been so right.

                                                 ~~~

    Two mornings after the dinner of disaster and after I finished my prayers with Papa, I was so ready to start the day. I had plans with my friend, Shreya. We were going to the beach. It was a bit of a drive but it was completely worth it. We decided to split the money for gas and I was supposed to invite Anjali (Shreya thought she was cool) but I didn't because she hadn't spoken to me for an entire two days.

     "What are you doing?" My mother asked as she walked into my room.

     "Packing. Shreya and I are driving to the beach today. Papa already said yes, mom. Don't make a big fuss about this." I said shaking my head.

     Every time one of us had to go somewhere in a swimsuit or even near a group of shirtless boys, my mother made a big stink of it.

    "I thought you were going to the boat party with Anjali?" She said as if it were a question and not a flat-out no.

    "Boat party?"

    For people who wore boat shoes....like Tucker.

    "No, no way." I said shaking my head.

    "Anjali!" My mother called but I was simply packing up my bag faster than I could before.

     "Mom, I get seasick." I said as an excuse.

     "Yes, mama?" Anjali said as she entered the room.

     She was wearing one of those stylish wrap-around sarongs with a brooch pinned at the shoulder and a cute beach hat. She already had her sunglasses on and her keys in her hand with a nice beach total over her shoulder and somehow I knew I wasn't getting out of this one.

      "Priya, why aren't you ready?" She asked looking down at my denim shorts and T-shirt.

      "You didn't even ask if I wanted to go with you. You just invited me and assumed I would go. Well, I don't like boats." I said shaking my head as I grabbed a scrunchy pulling my hair into a ponytail.

      "Priya," Anjali whined placing a hand on my shoulder. If you don't go, Papa, won't let me."

     I looked down at her hand and shook my head more, "Mama,"

     "No. No. You two work this out between yourselves." She shook her head leaving the room and I bit my lip halfway between agony and annoyance.

    "You won't die if you don't go to the boat party." I reassured her.

    "How selfish! You're the one who ran him away. You owe me." Anjali said plopping herself on my bed.

    She kicked off her blue wedges and nodded as if she was agreeing with herself as she laid back. She was right but that didn't mean I would give in so easily.

     "Plus, if you don't go, I have to stay here and I would love to just sit and read dad all of your little love stories."

     My heart sank as I heard the words. I had been writing somewhat obsessively ever since I was younger. I used to write about princes and weddings and Diwali and then I hit puberty. I started writing smut and romance together but it was more so me writing the romance around the smut to make it seem like the romance was to be focused on and not the smut. If dad found out about it, I would fail school because he would never let me write another letter in my life.

     "You can't blackmail me into going somewhere with you. Especially when I have no idea what you're talking about." I insisted pushing her away.

     "Papa!" Anjali yelled loudly sitting up and restrapping her heels to her legs.

     She tied perfect little bows just above her ankles before Papa had entered the room.

     "Ah, hello, my princesses." Papa said entering my room and kissing us both on the forehead.

     "Priya has something she'd like to tell you." Anjali said looking at me.

     Okay, pick telling Papa the truth and never publish another word on the internet in your life or lie and go with Anjali and be miserable and let down Shreya.

     "Papa, I'm going to the boat party with Anjali." I said putting my beach bag down on my bed and picking up a nice white leather purse.

     "Okay, well, then, why aren't you dressed. The train will probably leave soon." Papa said eyeing us.

     "I can't figure out what to wear." I lied.

     "Match with Anjali. I'll even drop you to the station." He said leaving our rooms with his hands in his pocket.

     "See, that wasn't that difficult was it?" Anjali said smiling. "Come on, I'll give you a sarong. I've got plenty. Tucker bought me like twelve when I told him I'd go to the party."

     "Whatever." I said rolling my eyes.

     

     I was fast asleep when we reached the docks. Boat party. More like yacht party. As Anjali shook me awake, I don't know what was worse, the cliché white lights strung across the bow of the huge ship or the fact that everyone on it was dressed and somewhat overdressed and Anjali and I fit right in.

     I looked down at the white strappy wedges that Anjali let me borrow. My feet were slightly bigger than hers but they fit perfectly somehow.

     We had left our dad at the station, took a train, and a taxi to get here. Anjali was handing the man a few more dollars when I got out of the car pulling the white leather bag over my shoulder.

     "Anjali, are you sure this is the right place?" I asked hoping she would say no.

     "Of course! Come on, don't embarrass me, behave yourself alright?" She asked as she pulled me towards the boat.

     I felt it dip and sink with weight as we hopped on and I already felt sick. I hated the way it felt. I automatically felt dizzy.

     "I'm gonna go find Tucker." Anjali said letting go of my hand.

     "No wait, Anjali, you can't leave me here. I don't know anyone." I said grabbing her hand again.

     "So meet someone," she said before we both saw a glimpse of blonde hair move through the crowd.

     She went running off before I could even argue my case. I nudged and pushed past the bodies in an attempt to follow her and ended up on the ground.

     "Oh, goodness, I'm so sorry."

    Goodness, Yorkshire, Bradford, probably, I could hear it in his voice.

 


	2. Chapter Two:  Haadsa/Accidents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Priya and her sister seem to have a sibling rivalry of the worst kind but somehow, she ends up at a party with Anjali, anyways where she bumps into someone who sounds a bit different. A bit more Bradford than she's used to.

 

    There was a really good chance that I was going to lose my job. This was definitely the last strike. I tried to deny it but it would be stupid to deny the facts. I looked up at the girl I had just bumped into and the tray of food I had just dropped.

     "I'm so sorry. Are you alright?" I apologised again as I brushed half of a crudite platter off of her dress.

     Her long eyelashes batted as she looked at me. She looked familiar but not familiar. Like I had known her somehow before, but I knew I hadn't. It was just her features. The same nose as Doniya, her eyes almost reminded me of my own father's. The swooping Kohl eyeliner and the way she tied her sarong as if it were a sari reminded me of Safiya when she dressed up on Eid Mubarak.

     "Oh my gosh, Anjali is going to kill me." She muttered under her breath as she flicked a carrot from her leg.

    Anjali...like the character in my favourite Bollywood movie? I held the tray and held my hand out to her. Her soft hand rested in mine and tightened around my larger fingers as I helped her up. She stood up straightening her sarong and grabbing her purse and the contents that rolled out before running off without saying anything to me.

    I stood there dumbfounded as I watched her run into the crowd. She didn't belong at this party. Not with these people. She didn't yell and scream at me like she should've.

   "This is coming out of your paycheck. Consider this your two weeks notice, Malik. I took a risk employing you!" I turned around to see Andy yelling at me and rubbed my hand slowly into my cheek where there was still dressing from the collision stuck to my face.

    My shoulders slumped as I gathered the ruined tray and headed back towards the kitchen. I felt the boat shake slightly. A good sign that we had set sail for the short half-hour trip. If anything, I was lucky since the party would be over as soon as we reached the next dock. The most I could hope for now was Liam not getting upset that I probably wouldn't make rent this month. Not unless I found another job and fast, but the truth was I didn't want another job and I knew it. I didn't think it mattered anyways since I wouldn't be there the most of the month. I rolled up the sleeves of my linen shirt and rebuttoned the top button of my vest as I pushed the kitchen doors open. The white surfaces in the kitchen were so pristine that I almost felt guilty for messing them with the dirty tray. Almost.

   I set the tray down before heading towards the bathroom and washing my hands. I splashed cold water in my face stroking my beard before wiping my face off with a towel. I somehow looked different since I started living away from home. My entire body felt different. It had been a year or so since I moved in with Liam. We had both decided to move into an apartment and he'd done the courteous thing by picking one between my mum's house and one of the oldest, finest Masjids in the city. Neither of us were too far from home or who we really were but I never went to the masjid. I knew Liam was doing his best not to push me but I knew he was worried too.

     He did have a right, in a way. I looked like a royal mess and he couldn't be blamed for being concerned about his best friend, could he? I sighed rubbing my eyes and pulling the headband and hair tie out of my hair before running my hands through it and shaking it out. If I was losing my job then there was no reason for me to keep my hair up and look "proper" anymore.

     I finally turned from the mirror and opened the door before meeting the same face that had greeted me early. She looked different now. Now that she wasn't outside under all the shitty light bulb "aesthetic" lighting. I watched her brown eyes grows with surprise or was that shock as we nearly bumped into each other again.

     Her gentle brown skin framed big eyes and curved plump lips covered in dark plum lipstick. Her eyelashes bopped again reminding me of the way she had done the same outside staring at me instead of yelling at me like any of the other guests would've. I realised we'd been staring at each other for a full five minutes when I noticed the crease between her eyebrows.

      "I, um, ripped my sarong when I tripped. Sorry. I just need the sewing kit. It's in the medicine cabinet." She tried to make a save for the awkward moment and shuffle past but I just rested my hand on her shoulder stopping her.

     I stared at her face for a moment. She was really pretty. I didn't understand why she kept apologizing though. I reached behind me and opened the medicine cabinet. My eyes scanned it until it landed on a clear box with needles and thread inside. I handed it to her and she gave me a grateful smile before turning around and taking a few steps towards the kitchen door. But I just felt something when I looked at her. Something familiar like walking back through the door of my mother's home and smelling baklava in the kitchen and seeing prayer rugs all around ready for midday.

     "Salaam." I said grabbing her hand and pulling her back to me before she could get too far.

      She stumbled over her feet and almost tripped again before she looked up at me and gathered enough bearings to respond, "Wa alaykum as salaam?"

      "It's not a question." I said letting go of her wrist.

      She pulled it back and shook it slightly letting silver bangles fall over her wrist, "I know. I just- Where do you get off assuming that I'm Muslim?"

      I stared at her as she pouted and began walking away again but I couldn't stop myself from following her, "But you are, aren't you?"

     We entered the kitchen again with two pairs of eyes on us. I looked up at the eyes I felt staring into my back. There was a set under dark eye shadow and thick eyeliner that reminded me of the girl I had been thinking of all night and yet those eyes were different somehow. Less tense. Less proud. More angered.

     The other eyes, I knew well. The owner of the yacht. As if I wasn't in enough shit tonight, already.

     "Malik, get back to work. She's a guest, don't bother her!" I turned around to see Andy yelling at me again.

     "I don't work for you anymore, remember?" I said rolling my eyes at him.

     "You fired him?" Another voice joined in. Tucker.

     "Why did you fire him?" Her eyes left mine and finally focused on something else. "Was it because he bumped into me? That's not necessary. It was my fault. Seriously."

     "Priya. Stop." The pair of eyes similar to her spoke up.

     That had to be who she had mentioned earlier. Who Priya had mentioned earlier. Anjali. Her sister maybe? I watched as Anjali tugged on Priya's hand pulling her away and Priya tugged back.

     "Don't do that. Why did you fire him? Is it because of me?" She asked Andy more forcefully this time.

     It took me a moment to realize he was looking back and forth from me to Tucker to this girl, Priya and wondering what the connection was.

     "Dude, you can't fire him." Tucker said in a calm, relaxed, tone.

     "Give him his job back. Seriously? Why would you fire him? That's stupid. That's petty. I bumped into him not the other way around." She said stepping up to Andy with a determined look on her face. "Hey kid!"

     She looked directly at me now. I didn't respond at first. High-pressure situation were definitely not my cup of tea. I blinked until she waved her hand in front of my face. I knew why she looked so familiar now. She was wearing the same scarf tied around her ponytail as Kajol in Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge. My favourite Bollywood film. I didn't even start watching Bollywood movies until Waliyha forced me to watch Kuch Kuch Hota Hai with her and even then, I watched them on mute for a while because Hindi and Urdu were so similar that it freaked me out.

     "Uh, me?" I said stupidly.

     Of course, she was talking to me. Who the hell else would she be speaking to?

     "Yeah, what's your name?" She asked raising an eyebrow and after she thought I took too long to answer she looked at Andy.

     "Zayn..." Andy looked at her confused.

     "Zayn, do you want your job back?"

     "Uhhh," I stumbled to find words as she stared at me patiently. "Yes? I mean, maybe, no, not really?"

     "No?" She asked raising an eyebrow. "Alright then."

     She held out her hand as Andy watched with his mouth hanging open. It took me a while to figure out what she was standing there for. Her eyes darted down to my apron and I let out a small breath of realisation before untying it and handing it to her. I unbuttoned the vest and handed it to her too. The absence of weight was more apparent than it's presence as I unbuttoned the first few buttons of my shirt.

      "Keep your stupid uniform then and don't hassle the man. Now you're down one staff member and it's all your fault. Honestly!" She said as she huffed away.

      Anjali, her sister I was assuming, grabbed her hand and she pulled away.

      "Priya, where are you going?" She yelled after her.

      "To the back deck. Where there aren't any of your rich friends and your stupid pretentious wait staff." She yelled back at her sister without looking before walking through the swinging doors of the kitchen.

       I wasn't entirely sure but I think I had just quit my job and it felt nice. It felt free and I had that Priya girl to thank but she didn't seem very happy about it. Anjali stood there with her arms crossed looking at Tucker with eyes filled with tears. He wrapped his long lanky arms around her pulling her in. They were like my parents. They somehow reminded me of my parents. I tore my eyes away from them as I heard for the door Priya had just gone through.

       "Zayn! If you do this, you're fired forever!" Andy yelled after me.

       I glanced back at him and shrugged as I pushed the two way parlour doors open. I looked around on the open deck. The fancy lights from the front strung around here but there were no buckets of ice with wine and no hors d'oeuvres trays. She was just sitting there at the back of the boat with her heels off and her feet tucked near her body, her knees pulled up the her chin as she fiddled with one of the tassels on the end of the sarong. She was staring into the water as the boat glided through the waves as if it were being tugged along.

       "Are you okay?" I asked as I pulled the carton of cigarettes from my dress shirt pocket.

       She looked up glancing at me with red eyes and an annoyed look on her face. It wasn't long before her eyes turned back to the water and she shook her head.

       "Do you need something like a bottle of water, a carrot stick, a hug?" I tried.

       Those were all things that made my little sisters feel better but I didn't know her well enough so I just tried those. I wished I hadn't. I could hear her begin to blubber in tears as I finished my sentence.

       "Shit." I cursed under my breath.

       I sat next to her and stuck the end of a fresh cigarette in my mouth and dug in my pants for a lighter. I came up empty.

       "Hey, um, you wouldn't happen to have a lighter or a match would you?" I asked raising an eyebrow.

       She looked over me positively miserable and who could blame her? It was stupid of me to ask right then.

       "Right, sorry." I said shaking my head.

       I looked around the empty deck for something I could use. My shoulders slumped when I realised it was pretty empty around here, too.  I didn't know if I could do this without the nicotine.

       "I'll be right back," she didn't react or respond and I waited only to realize I wasn't getting anything. "Priya."

       Her head snapped up as I got up checking my pockets once again before I whirled around heading towards the kitchen. I pushed the doors slightly open peeking in for any outliers. No Andy, no Anjali, no Tucker. Coast is clear. The fondue was just coming out, lucky me.

      "Hey, Will! Will, come here!" I half-whisper shouted to a former coworker.

      "Something you need?" He asked reaching me with the fondue tray.

      I found the small knob on the heat under the fondue plate and watched the small fire light under it. I held the cigarette in my mouth and lit it then waved Will off.

      "Andy's gonna have your ass tomorrow!" He yelled in his thick Irish accent as I slipped back out the doors.

      I shook back out the doors. _Somebody's_ always on my ass for _something._ No matter what I do to stay out of trouble.

      I scanned the deck to find her in the same place I left in the same position almost. She was slightly different this time, though. She was watching me. I had become important enough for her to pay attention to. I made my way over to her as the wind whipped my hair in my face. I ran my hand through my hair fixing it as I sat next to her.

     "So what happened back there?" I asked as her eyes left my face and moved back to her hand that was tugging on the tassel at the end of her wrapped dress.

     Somehow it seemed more bold of her not to look at me than the other way round. She seemed not to care about the eye contact while speaking rule. She seemed to not be concerned about disrespecting me at all. I liked it. People were so often afraid of me and this never happened. Even Liam stopped telling me the truth at some point because he valued my feelings too much. This girl. Priya. Placed no value on them. She seemed cold, almost. This felt more personal.

      "Nothing. It's not any of your business." She said refusing to look at me.

      "Okay, so to start with your sister looked like she'd seen a ghost when I said the word Muslim yet you responded to my Salaam proudly," I paused to check her reaction and there wasn't one so I assumed Anjali was her sister. "But I guess that is none of my business."

      I had enough time to take a drag as she hesitated before responding chastly. "Damn, right."

      Her hands flew to her shoes before I could even think of getting her to tell me what was wrong. Her fingers wiped the corner of her eyes and she tried to stand up but the boat bucked and her chest connected with mine. She glared at me before pushing me away.

      "Honestly any director that can make that look romantic is a magician, too." She said annoyed.

      "Why don't you like me?" I asked almost grumbling as she took a few steps away and I pulled the cigarette from my mouth.

      "Why? Honestly? Why? I saved your ass in there. I made it look like you quit instead of got fired and all you did was come out here and bother me and remind me that..." She trailed off and I heard her voice crack.

      "Remind you that what?" I asked.

      I didn't want to make her crack the way she did. That was never my intention. I honestly just wanted to know what was wrong with her but when the next words spewed from her mouth like jabbing a knife into a can of high pressure air, I had to take a step back. It felt like her words would have blown me away even if I didn't.

      "You reminded me that my sister hates everything about India and Pakistan and where we come from and who we are and I'm trying really hard not to be her!" She yelled as tears streamed down her cheeks.

      "Tell me everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some definitions  
> Desi- south asian (indians, pakistanis, etc.)  
> Salaam - Peace be with you (greeting to another muslim)  
> Wa alaykum as salaam - returning greetings to above  
> Masjid - the mosque, or religious 'temple' where people go to pray  
> Inshallah - 'by Allah' 'Allah willing' type of saying  
> FROM PREVIOUS CHAPTERS:  
> Balushahi - Like a donut but far better because instead of oil, it's usually fried in ghee (clarified butter)  
> Sari- (also spelled saree but I spell it sari because it's in English and both spellings mean the same) traditional indian dress  
> Choli- The tight midriff like shirt worn under a sari


	3. خطر/Danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kulfi - Like ice cream but a lot creamier

“So when did you decide you wanted to be Muslim instead?” He asked as he propped himself up on his elbows and took another drag of his cigarette.  
His black hair was long, messy and parted down the middle. He rubbed his eyes every now and then when we crossed over a subject that was uncomfortable and he was doing it again now. He rubbed his eyes and I saw the mandala tattoo on his wrist which only reminded me of my sister.  
I bit my lip watching him. His eyelashes were long and curled slightly and his when he rubbed his eyes his lip caught between his teeth, too. He brushed a lock of hair from his face and looked more carefully at me when I didn’t answer.  
“Why do you smoke?” I asked him quietly.  
“It’s bad habit,” he said then hesitated. “I picked up the habit my first year of uni. My mum keeps telling me the only way to stop is to get addicted to something else,”  
I nodded and looked at him again. He seemed to be waiting for my answer to his previous question. I swung my feet over the edge of the boat and dipped my foot in the warm moving water behind the boat as I thought about my answer. I closed my eyes remembering the day. We were sitting in front of the shrine and all of a sudden, I didn’t get it anymore. I saw my dad after prayers everyday and how refreshed and pleased he looked. How satisfied to be who he was and worship the way he did.  
“I just knew I didn’t want to be Hindu anymore. I remember the exact day. I was in year seven and Anjali was in college, year 10. It was July 20,” I said moving my foot back and forth through the ocean. “I just, I saw what my dad had and I wanted it. I asked my father to help me convert. He did. I told my mother the next day and well, that was it. No turning back, you know?”  
He nodded as he outed his cigarette on the deck and flicked it into a nearby bin. He rested his hand on his knee sitting up properly and looking at me. We made eye contact for a moment and I looked away. I couldn’t hold his intense gaze something about it made me want to jump off into the ocean and swim away.  
“So your sister’s mad because you went and did it without telling her?” He asked.  
I pulled my knees back up to my chest and wrapped one of the tassels around my finger. The cotton was woven is small cylinders of fabric that wrapped around my ankles when I walked and caressed my skin if I moved to  
quickly. I was wearing leggings under the sarong as if it were a sari.  
“No, that’s not why. She was upset because I’d left her alone.” I said glancing over at him. “You gotta know how hard it is. Being different like weird, I guess.”  
“I gotta know?” He chuckled and shook his head. “Why is that?”  
I bit my lip wondering how to explain it without sounding like an assuming asshole. “I mean, look at you. You’re covered in tattoos and their honestly, wonderful but you also, well, you don’t look like that kinda person that has their shit together. I mean, are you going to school? What are you going to school for?”  
He narrowed his eyes at me before turning away and staring at the place we’d just sailed away from. All that was visible now was the outlines of big buildings as the sun set and lights that lined the horizon. I stared at the ground and sat there waiting for a response.  
“Art.” He murmured quietly.  
“See?” I asked looking up at him. “You don’t even look like an art student. At least, not those pretentious annoying ones that I see all the time at work or something. You don’t look like that. You look like you’re letting life carry you along. You look more easy going and I just thought that maybe you’d get it-”  
I waited for a while looking at him as I searched for my answer on his face. He didn’t look at me and the moment seemed like forever until one side of his lips curved up into a slight smirk and he looked at me finally making eye contact and placing a hand on my cheek. His thumb brushed over my lips and he pulled his hand back.  
“Sorry, I just had to touch you for some reason. I don’t know. I had an urge.” He said as his eyes fell to the water.  
Those thick eyelashes made it seem like he was ashamed but I understood because I felt what he was talking about. I wanted to reach out and touch his face too. I wanted to run my hand over the stubble there and see how it felt.  
“I get it.” We both said at the same time.  
He chuckled and I was captivated at the way his eyes twinkled. That’s only supposed to happen in the movies and he was like Allah had taken a pair of scissors and pulled him right off of the silver screen. It was beautiful.  
“But you’re not telling the whole truth. What aren’t you telling me?”  
I narrowed my eyes and him. There was no way he could know.  
“No one ever tells the whole truth,” He explained. “I’ve got three little sisters. I’m practically a lawyer.”  
He pressed his hands to his chest and smirked as he said the words a lawyer and his hair was blown from his face by a sea breeze as I stupidly blurted out, “My dad’s a lawyer.”  
“Your father the Muslim is also, your father the lawyer?”He asked knitting his dark eyebrows together.  
I nodded and he bit his lip.  
“So? What is the truth?”  
“My sister got her first boyfriend that year, too. He wanted her to sleep with him and she wouldn’t do it because of Brahmacharya,” I said quietly whispering the last word with reverence.  
“Brahmacharya,” He said it like a foreigner, not Indian at all.  
That was when I realized I was sitting here telling him my whole life story and why my sister hated me and I didn’t know anything about him. I didn’t even know where he was from.  
“Where are you from?” I asked raising an eyebrow.  
“My dad’s Pakistani and my mum’s from, well, she’s from here.” I nodded and wondered how his grandparents had let that happen, if only I had that sort of freedom (the kind Priya grasped desperately for). “My mum’s white before you ask and my dad’s family is really okay with it.”  
“That’s great.” I said smirking but inside a guilt washed over me.  
“You don’t like your sister’s boyfriend.” He said as a realization and I wondered if he picked up on what had just happened in my head.  
“It’s not that. I just- He doesn’t get us. He’s.. I feel like he doesn’t respect our culture.” I explained tugging at the ends of my hair and pulling them over one shoulder.  
“Like he just doesn’t get what it means to be Indian and Paki,” he finished for me. “How sacred and important it is.”  
“Yeah,” I said as soon as he finished his sentence. “wait, how do you know?”  
“I dated a girl like that once. I broke up with her after my little sister, Safaa, decided that she just didn’t get it.” He explained as he laid back on the deck.  
His feet still hung off the boat just barely hanging above the water. He tugged on my arm pulling me back with him and now we were in the same position with our hands folded just under our chests and looking up at the sky.  
“Safaa,” I murmured. “That’s beautiful.”  
“Yeah.” He said quietly. “So why was it important that your sister had her first boyfriend?”  
He didn’t seem to want to talk about his family and I don’t know why but it bother me a little bit. I bit my lip and stared up at the stars as we passed them. Half the sky was orange and the other half was dark blue like the deepest levels of the ocean. I sighed.  
“You know how in Islam, we have Zina. For Hindus, it’s Brahmacharya. No sex before marriage. Abstinence is important to them just as much as it is to any desi really, but my sister, she would always say how happy she was to just have me alongside her during prayer. How happy she was that she didn’t have to go through it alone. That she had someone to talk to that wasn’t mom or dad.” I explained tapping my fingers against my torso as I spoke. “I guess, when I became a muslim, my sister, felt alone. We haven’t really been close ever since.”  
The boat was either going over choppy waters or we were pulling into the next harbor and I got my answer soon when the lights flickered for a moment and then, the kitchen door opened.  
“Zayn, the boat’s docked. You can leave now if you want. Avoid Andy, though. Man’s livid as if Man United lost a game or something.” a voice called as a stream of light from the kitchen peeked out.  
Zayn, that was a beautiful name. Literally. Zayn looked up and called back to whoever was speaking. I was too lazy to turn and look.  
“They did. My dad was more than pissed about it, earlier.” He yelled back.  
I looked up at him as he sat up and pulled at the bow-tie ends around his collar. I reached up taking them in my hands and tied it for him. As I tightened the loop and straightened the bow-tie, he smirked down at me.  
“I had an urge,” I said shrugging before a huge smile broke out on my face.  
He nodded smiling and standing. He held his hand out for me and took it wrapping my fingers in his hand helping myself up.  
“You know, I don’t have to get home for another hour or two. ” He said giving me a willing smile.  
I pulled my phone from the pocket in my leggings where the slit of my sarong parted and looked at the time. It was almost midnight. Eleven-thirty. I knew I had to go before my father wrote me off a irresponsible like Anjali.  
“I can’t stay. I’m sorry.” I said biting my lip and flashing him the time.  
“I would still love to hear your story.” He said smirking at me and glancing at my phone.  
“Yeah, um, okay, but how?” He knitted his eyebrows together as my fingers curled around my phone. “Oh, oh, you want my number, oh, okay? Wow, smooth. Um sure. You can give me yours and I’ll text you?”  
He nodded as he put his number in my phone. He knitted his eyebrows and looked at me as he held his phone in front of his face.  
“Take a selfie with me.” he said.  
“Um..okay?” I said moving slightly to stand next to him.  
I did my best to wipe the messed make up from my embarrassing crying session earlier that night and we both smile for the picture. He set as his contact picture and handed me the phone.  
‘Text me when you get the urge.’ I typed hitting send.  
He looked like he was about to speak before the door opened again.  
“Priya, let’s go. Dad just called me.” Anjali said.  
My eyes fell to the ground as I sensed the bitter fire in her throat when she spoke to me. I didn’t want to go and leave Zayn there, I didn’t want to go anywhere where Anjali was involved. I felt Zayn’s hand on my elbow and I looked up at him. He gave me an encouraging smile and nodded towards the door where my sister was standing as if he was trying to tell me that it would be okay and miraculously had to believe him.

It was Tuesday before I thought about him again. It seems impossible sure, but it wasn’t. I had classes every day after we’d met and I had no time to think. Between work and the library and avoiding Anjali at home, there was nothing I could do to even call Zayn so four days, after we’d met I found myself thinking of him for the first time as I spun in my office chair. I was working on an article for the library about ISIS and Muslims. They gave it to me because I was the only one who could be trusted not to shed a bad light on Islam and villainize Muslims and I was beyond proud that I got the article. Mostly because I was tired of the Uni journals, and papers making it look like we were criminals.  
I couldn’t focus on it. I couldn’t think of one sentence for long enough to type it out. That was why I was spinning now. I planted my feet hard on the ground and closed my eyes leaning back but keeping one leg on the ground. It normally helped with the spins. I needed examples and people I could quote on what being a Muslim was all about and it couldn’t be anyone in my family.  
I suddenly felt lucky to know Zayn. I tapped the blank screen of my phone trying to stop myself from calling him. He said he would call me right? He promised he would, anyways. It wasn’t like he said it was a sure thing or that he wanted to hang out. He just promised he’d call me so I expected a call and waited even though, I hadn’t done any ‘active’ waiting since I had met him on Friday. I had basically just spent the past four days trying to forget about the party altogether but it occurred to me that maybe that wasn’t the best idea so I did what I do best.  
I opened the drawer in my office desk and pulled out the small container with my supplies. I crawled under the desk stretching my legs before crossing them in my lap and pulling two incense stick from the box burner I kept them in. I pulled out a lighter and lit the ends of them waiting for a moment before fanning them out and sticking the ends into the box. I set it down gently in front of me letting the scent wash over me before I rested my hands on my thighs taking in a deep breath and quieting my mind.  
At least, that’s what I tried to do but I seemed to hear every noise in the entire library below me as I sat there in meditation. I took deep breaths doing my best to focus on Allah and Paradise alone but it wasn’t working. I used to think meditation in the office was embarrassing until I tried it once to relax my anxiety and it worked and gave me new ideas. I loved meditation. It was like, praying except I felt more open to what was written for me when I did it like this. I felt more separate from the world and alone. It felt peaceful and it sounds like a load of bullshit but it wasn’t. It never was when it came to Allah. It felt like I was calming and connecting with something bigger and better than me.  
“Salaam,” I jumped hitting my head on my desk and watching as few pens rolled off in front of my eyes and onto the ground next to nice pair of trainers in front of me.  
I shimmied the incense box out of the way and ducked out from under the desk, “Wa alaykum salaam. Ranveer, I thought you were working tomorrow.”  
He held set something on my desk and held his hand out to help me up. I took it standing up and picking up the incense box, I licked my fingers putting it out before noticing what was on the table. A large bowl of what looked like ice cream at first.  
“Is that what I think it is?” I asked as I dropped the incense box back into the container and into the drawer.  
“Kulfi and a handsome Punjabi boy at your service, M’am.” He said nodding his head causing black hair to go flying in his face.  
I shook my head as I sat down and grabbed the bowl digging my spoon in. I watched as he pulled another chair over. I crossed my legs as if I were still meditating as I ate. I had known Ranveer for two years now and somehow, he had always managed to find me at the right place at the right time over the course of those two years. If I needed help editing or I needed someone to stand next to me as I freaked out about an upcoming concert or someone to brush my hair and pat my head while I groaned unnecessarily about another trip to India or Pakistan, that was what Ranveer was here for. He kissed my cheek before he sat down.  
We had met on one of the late nights when the head librarian had asked everyone to work late because we’d gotten in a new shipment of books. One of the shipments was a collection of Qurans for the masjid down the street. She ordered them out of respect for the high population of Muslim students at the school and we were the only ones willing to go through wudu in order to touch them. I met Ranveer when he went outside and gathered the snow to melt and wash with and he gathered enough for me also since we were the only two working on the project.  
“That guy from Friday call you yet?”  
I shook my head and shrugged as I took a bite and smiled to myself. He always brought Kulfi when he came to visit me and he wasn’t working.  
“I got you rose, pistachio and malai, just the way you like it. It’s like a Napoleon but less french or I guess, american? Who invented Napoleon ice cream?” He asked raising an eyebrow.  
“I don’t know, Ranveer. Thanks. I’m so stressed out because of this article and I couldn’t focus. You’re the world’s best friend, honestly.” I said leaning forward and kissing his cheek.  
“World’s best friend.” He said smiling as if he were finally satisfied with himself. “Oh, by the way, your phone was ringing when I got in here. You must’ve been meditating so hard that you didn’t hear it.”  
He chuckled and picked up my phone which he had known the password to for a while and scrolled through the text messages and contacts.  
“Oh, is this the guy from Friday? Look, how cute you are together!” Ranveer shook his head and handed me my phone before placing his bowl on my desk and getting down on his knees. “Please, Allah, bring me a nice brown girl like the one in front of me. It would be so nice to just have one. I’ll take the other seventy-one when I get there.”  
“Oh, hush up, Ranveer. You shouldn’t joke like that.” I said tugging his elbow for him to get up. “You should pray for forgiveness for you crass jokes. They aren’t even funny. You’ll just make people keep believing that stupid stereotype. Don’t we get enough bad press as it is. It’s like every time I wear my hijab in public suddenly people I greet every day don’t know who I am anymore.”  
“Right, okay.” he said tossing his hands up in defense. “The point is that I think if this guy isn’t going to call you, you should call him.”  
I nodded as I took a last bit of my Kulfi setting the empty bowl on my desk. I knew meditation was good. I opened myself up to Allah and look what he’d given me. Two missed calls from mister long-flowing hair himself. I was just about to call him back when a loud thump came from the newsroom. It sounded like a chair being thrown into a wall and it wasn’t rare considering the news network of the university was run by students and older men who didn’t always seem to get along, as well, as our producer, Andy, who didn’t always know how she could calm the sponsors down.  
“We should probably go see what that’s about.” Ranveer said. “Leave Mr. Perfection for later. If you don’t call him back, right away, it’ll make him sweat a little.”  
I nodded putting my phone down on the desk and walking with Ranveer to the newsroom where he worked most of the time as he wiped his fingers off on a paper napkin. I glanced up at all the screens around that were blundering with people yelling and gunshots going off. It took me a moment to process what was going on. It took me a long time to figure out why the director had an intern slammed against the wall. It took me a very long time to realize that we were now going to be the most hated people in this newsroom starting then.  
“What do you mean there was a terrorist attack on a magazine in France?” the director yelled in the face of the intern and then as I was contemplating backing out he turned on us.  
“Get out! Get out!” Andy yelled at us with her brown hair flying behind her ears and her face growing red like a tomato and I froze.  
People never yelled at me. They only person that yelled at me was the one that mattered most and my father had only yelled at me once. All of my muscles tensed up and my legs seemed to go wobbly all at the same time. Two ends of my body being polar opposites as I sat there and stared at Andy as she came our way while Ranveer tugged my hand. He pulled me through the door and back to my desk through the stacks where the old newspapers were kept. He pulled me down behind one of the pale gray file cabinets crouched over me as he watched Andy slam the door.  
“I’m going to do you a favor. I’ve been working here for two years and I graduate in a few more so you’re gonna be left behind. Whenever something happens that has to do with terrorists and muslims, we can’t be involved. If anyone finds out, the university paper will be pinned as bias. We do not step foot in that newsroom until this is all over.” He said placing a hand on my cheek and pulling me closer to him a bit roughly. “Do not enter.”  
I nodded without hesitation and bit my lip as I fell back on the ground. I peeked around the cabinet and I could see slightly the silhouette of Andy peeking out of the newsroom as my eyes welled up with tears. I was afraid. I was too scared to leave the university but even more afraid to stay there and I quietly wondered if I could lose my job for this and it was then, that I decided to crawl back to my desk, pull my incense back out and call Zayn.

**Author's Note:**

> Just some things I thought some people might need help with:  
> Balushahi - Like a donut but far better because instead of oil, it's usually fried in ghee (clarified butter)  
> Sari- (also spelled saree but I spell it sari because it's in English and both spellings mean the same) traditional indian dress  
> Choli- The tight midriff like shirt worn under a sari


End file.
